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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23998489">Prostitutes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherAnon0/pseuds/AnotherAnon0'>AnotherAnon0</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Toxic [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Death, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Ethical Dilemmas, Execution, Forced, Hospital Sex, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Permanent Injury, Physical Abuse, Post-War, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Survivor Guilt, Unhealthy Relationships, heed the tags</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 21:40:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,965</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23998489</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherAnon0/pseuds/AnotherAnon0</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Nicholai is forced to start committing atrocities. A series of small vignettes centred around UBCS's first deployment.</p><p>~</p><p>"What happened to honour? Glory? All of that bullshit!" Nicholai spat, his heart beating in his neck as he tried to gasp for air through a reeling mind.</p><p>Sergei leaned in, a smirk painting its way across the canvas of his pale cheeks. The terrible, failing lighting of the cramped washroom cast devilish shadows over his face that accentuated whatever psychosis Nicholai was sure had taken seed behind his good eye. </p><p>"These are not soldiers." He said quietly, "These are prostitutes. Bought, disposable bodies."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Nicholai Ginovaef | Nikolai Zinoviev/Sergei Vladimir, Sergei Vladimir/Nikolai Zinoviev/UBCS Mercenary</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Toxic [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1718308</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Prostitutes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>"You survive better than most of them."</em>
</p><p>Words unspoken reverberated in Nicholai's head, swarming like a fleet of angry wasps. It wasn't quite a headache, not yet. </p><p>It had taken six hours for what was left of the mercenaries to return to the Caucasus facility by air. Out of the 120 men who had been deployed to contain the first outbreak in North Africa, only 58 remained. A mortality rate several times higher than that of casual warfare.</p><p>It had been a slaughterhouse. </p><p>No amount of training could have prepared them. No briefings, memorandums, or manila folders stuffed with gruesome photographs could have given them a glimpse into what demonic entities awaited them. </p><p>Half of the surviving men had to be admitted to the facility's small on-location clinic upon returning, some immediately upon landing due to the severity of their injuries. All were scoured for infection with incessant needle-pokes and the probing eye of virologists in heavy, full-body protective equipment. </p><p>Sergei had been there, standing in the shadows of the hangar, watching the men be corralled off of the C-17 craft like wounded cattle. He had been there, floating at the back of the room, while the Umbrella agents were debriefing the soldiers, counting heads, taking names. He had been there, in the cramped office, while Nicholai was getting fully inspected by the masked Doctor.</p><p>His reaction to the damage painted across Nicholai's prodded, naked body being limited to a small number of bruises and cuts was palpable disappointment. </p><p>~</p><p>
  <em>The door of the clinic check-up room closed with a soft 'click.' </em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Did you do what I asked you to?"  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Yes." </em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Good boy, Kolya." A wide grin, "Did they suffer?" </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The question lingered in the air for a moment. Nicholai swallowed, pulling his arms through the sleeves of the light blue Johnny gown. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The faces of the mercenaries he had summarily executed lingered behind his eyes. Men who had wandered, ran, or gotten broken up from their platoon, and Nicholai had found them -- like an opportunistic wolf. The relief in their eyes when they saw him angered him enough to pull the trigger. The first one was sloppy, gun shaking in tentative hands, and the bullet slapped the young Mexican through the chest. He'd fallen, but only out of the shock of being shot by his superior. The second bullet killed him. The third bullet was a senseless draw from an anxiety-locked finger. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It had gotten easier and easier as he fulfilled the order to select and kill six of their own men.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Does not everyone suffer when they face death?" </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sergei pursed his lips, folding his hands over his lap as he leaned back in the utilitarian office chair, "You should have shot them in the gut and let them bleed out slowly."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"I did what you wanted me to." Nicholai snapped.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"It was for your own good." Sergei said flatly, "You will thank me later."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It had gotten easier and easier.</em>
</p><p>~</p><p>He had decided to hide in Mikhail's office.</p><p>The Captain never seemed to mind him lingering in the chair across from him, heels up on the seat, peering at him from over his knees, even if a word was never exchanged between them. Mikhail never tried to ask him what was wrong anymore, fearing a fallout. For some reason, that was comforting.</p><p>The older man was nursing a cold mug of tea, and sorting through a thin stack of documents in silence. </p><p>Nicholai knew the look on Mikahil's face well. The fear. The anxiety. The small twitch in the back of the clenched jaw, one that consistently beat out every few seconds. It was never a look he'd had, or an emotion he'd experienced, but he recalled old videos he'd been forced to watch as a young soldier in the USSR that described the phenomenon. </p><p>It was survivor's guilt.</p><p>Part of Nicholai wanted to reach out and touch Mikhail, though he didn't quite know why. One of the older man's hands was sitting idly on the desk between them, and it was just close enough that he would have been able to lay a palm over it if he gave in and responded to the suspicious itch that told him to. To soothe him. To offer him comfort. </p><p>That same part wanted to say something to Mikhail. To tell him it wasn't his fault that the men died. To assure him it was all part and parcel of the hellscape that was the campaign. That it was an inevitability -- Umbrella's willingness to sell bioweapons to even corrupt, unprepared governments they damn well knew wouldn't be able to contain them. He wondered if anything he said would help the man sleep easier that night. </p><p>Biting his tongue and pinching his finger to harshly control the urges he could not explain, he remained silent. </p><p>The wind whipped at the thin, small window in Mikhail's industrial refinery office. It must have been around midnight.</p><p>"The few who made it are very good men..." Mikhail sighed, twisting the mug of tea before him with a battered hand idly as he cast a sad but optimistic glance at Nicholai, "And you, who came out without barely a scratch on you... Incredible, really." His eyes cast downwards, breathing deeply through his nose. "You are a formidable soldier, Nicholai."</p><p>The younger man cast his eyes at the floor, avoiding the kindness of the gaze he knew had risen to solidly fixate on him. </p><p>He didn't deserve it. </p><p>"You will ask the <em>polknovik</em> to initiate the... repopulation... of the platoons, yes?" Mikhail asked after a moment of silently being neglected. </p><p>"Mm. <em>Da</em>."</p><p>The harsh blare of the phone ringing, slicing through the soft silence of the dim office, caused both of the men to jolt. Mikhail quickly grabbed the receiver, announcing himself to the caller. Nicholai watched intently as the already tepid expression on Mikhail's face drooped further. The older man thanked the caller, sighing as he replaced the receiver on the base of the the phone at the far corner of his desk.</p><p>A quick exchange, so late at night.</p><p>"Add one more, I suppose." Mikhail murmured, grabbing a pen and quickly jotting down some information on a notepad.</p><p>"McKrassen. Alpha Platoon."</p><p>~</p><p>
  <em>Sergei trailed his finger along Nicholai's cold, clammy neck. It sent a shiver down the younger man's spine. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The ventilator hissed and clicked in small waves, heartrate monitor beeping tersely below the artificial breaths of life being pumped into the mercenary's collapsed lungs.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"I... don't want to do this, Sergei." Nicholai swallowed hard, eyes following the Colonel as he moved from behind him slowly to stand beside the bed. Sergei towered over the battered form, a soft smirk playing on his lips as he lifted the back of his hand to sweep it softly across the other man's forehead.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"What is his name?" Sergei ignored Nicholai's protestless protest, eye intently fixated on the bruised, swollen skin beneath him he was now soothing with a warm palm. He brushed some of the messy, damp blonde hair off of the young man's forehead.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Nicholai stood silent for a moment before reaching out to snatch the clipboard stuffed in the pocket of the front of the bed, a few feet away from him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Robert McKrassen." He said shakily, "I remember his file... Former Marine from America."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sergei chuckled, fingers beginning to pull at the white linens covering the soldier's weakened, battered frame. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Poor American boy." He smiled, "All these broken bones. He shouldn't have made it to the airlift."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The sheets slipped down silently, spilling onto the glossy floor like milk. The blue medical gown opened with no resistance but for the lines of IV tubing weaving out of the young man's arm, which Sergei unceremoniously ripped out with a single pull.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The mercenary murmured hazily, eyes fluttering half-open above the oxygen mask. He whimpered meekly. Nicholai wondered if it was an automatic reaction to any stimuli, or if he understood what was happening but simply couldn't do anything but peep pathetically. He suppressed a gag. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>"You are so good at following orders..." The Colonel started breathing deeply through his nose as he danced his fingertips along the mangled skin of the mercenary's collarbone, one that was hastily set with pins, "You have always been special."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sergei cocked his head towards the younger man, smiling that inappropriate smile. That playful smile. That genuine, happy smile that made no sense for the situation that was so casually unfolding.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Take off your clothes, Kolya. I want to watch this time." </em>
</p><p>
  <em>~</em>
</p><p>The taste of bile lingered at the back of his throat.</p><p>He spat and spat and spat but it wouldn't go away. </p><p>Nicholai dropped his head to rest on the toilet seat, breathing hard through his nose as he tried to quell the next wave of vomit-inducing nausea that crashed through his stomach. Reaching up with a weak hand, Nicholai flushed the contents of the bowl, sitting back on his heels as bitter acid burned through his mouth.</p><p>Sergei was perched on the edge of the bathtub, lips pursed, leg bobbing slightly. </p><p>"Have you gone soft?" The words were callous, harsh, deliberate. </p><p>Nicholai glared up at him, nose flared in disgust. The words that escaped his sore lips were quieter, raspier than he wanted them to be. "He <em>died</em>. After we left him. The boy."</p><p>"Yes? And?" Sergei sighed when the younger man released a sob, tears starting to well up in his pale blue eyes, "You have gone soft. A bleeding heart."</p><p>"And you have gone <em>insane</em>!" Nicholai barked, his stomach acid-abused throat screaming in protest with fiery burns the moment he elevated his volume above what it was able to accommodate, "What happened to you, Sergei? What have they done to you?" The words were pleading, begging through quivering lips. Tears began rolling down Nicholai's sallow cheeks as he addressed the man looming above him. </p><p>"What happened to honour? Glory? All of that <em>bullshit</em>!" Nicholai spat, his heart beating in his neck as he tried to gasp for air through a reeling mind.</p><p>Sergei leaned in, a smirk painting its way across the canvas of his pale cheeks. The terrible, failing lighting of the cramped washroom cast devilish shadows over his face that accentuated whatever psychosis Nicholai was sure had taken seed behind his good eye. </p><p>"These are not soldiers." He said quietly, "These are prostitutes. Bought, disposable bodies."</p><p>Nicholai took his head into his hands, fingers roughly pulling at his short locks of silver hair as he tried to slow the long, ragged breaths escaping his lips. Sergei scoffed at the pathetic sight before him, standing abruptly to tower in his full 6'7 over the younger man kneeling on the floor.</p><p>"Why do you care about them?" </p><p><em>I don't.</em> </p><p>
  <em>I do.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I'm not sure.</em>
</p><p>"What happened to your little dreams? Hmm?" Sergei smirked, "You wanted to go somewhere... with a beach?" Nicholai blinked up at his superior, wondering when he had told him about his dreams of escaping Russia -- eloping with the sun, fleeing to peace. Maybe that night the two had gotten drunk and fooled around one month ago. Maybe earlier. He couldn't remember. </p><p>"Then have a sense of self-preservation. The only life that matters is your own... I shouldn't have to remind you of this." The Colonel turned to cross the threshold into the bedroom, making his way to the door in silence. Pulling it open, he stopped to glance back at Nicholai, who was staring at him with a look of pensive anxiety -- cheeks still stained with the red-flush of tears.</p><p>"We need to enjoy ourselves while they suffer! Take all we can..." Sergei smiled that authentic smile again, one that made Nicholai's stomach turn.</p><p>"... just like they enjoyed themselves while it all fell apart around us."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Beginning of the end! Likely only two more parts to the series! </p><p>I am hoping the trajectory of madness and ethical dissolution for Sergei was pretty clear from Part 2 onwards. Things ended up being far more linked up in this series than I had initially intended! </p><p>Next part I am going to try and have Carlos and Tyrell make an appearance at Fanficreader01's suggestion! :D</p></blockquote></div></div>
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